( to his credit, he catches the look she gives him at 'cupid', and the noise he makes at her expression sits just south of frustrated, bookended by a sharp, muttered explanation of, ) I'm an archer, ( that he's not quite sure she hears because she says something about how she can't, but doesn't elaborate on what it is that she can't do.
and jesus fucking christ, clint doesn't think he's ever felt older in his life, and lottie must have like ten years on kate, and he understands kate far better.
(in reality, lottie has maybe four years on kate, but there's not a single part of clint barton that's willing to concede that kate bishop is of a remotely fuckable age.)
luckily for the both of them, clint's used to gross experiences, and while most of the women he hangs out with by choice do not sob against his chest, a woman sobbing against his chest is fairly low on the gross scale of things. so, she leans against him and he's aware, distantly, of the front of his shirt becoming more damp, but he's not quite sure if lottie wants or needs him to do anything else. his hands slide down her arms, his awareness of both his-and-her's hotness returning, and it slowly, slowly dawns on him that the fucking on the bus may not just be duplicity natives being duplicity natives, and it may be more duplicity encouraging them to do what the city wants them to do.
and so he mms, vaguely and distantly, like his thoughts are somewhere else entirely, and lottie speaking — wetly — isn't even enough to quite draw him from his reverie, not until lottie pulls away from him, the comforting warmth of her body against his replaced by relative coldness. )
Huh? (oh. ) I dunno. I don't drink coffee with milk. Probably the regular ones. ( probably some irregular ones, too. drinking breast milk was a kink, right? that's probably on a menu somewhere, he thinks, but doesn't vocalise. )
screams that first icon LOTTIE WHY SO GROSS
and jesus fucking christ, clint doesn't think he's ever felt older in his life, and lottie must have like ten years on kate, and he understands kate far better.
(in reality, lottie has maybe four years on kate, but there's not a single part of clint barton that's willing to concede that kate bishop is of a remotely fuckable age.)
luckily for the both of them, clint's used to gross experiences, and while most of the women he hangs out with by choice do not sob against his chest, a woman sobbing against his chest is fairly low on the gross scale of things. so, she leans against him and he's aware, distantly, of the front of his shirt becoming more damp, but he's not quite sure if lottie wants or needs him to do anything else. his hands slide down her arms, his awareness of both his-and-her's hotness returning, and it slowly, slowly dawns on him that the fucking on the bus may not just be duplicity natives being duplicity natives, and it may be more duplicity encouraging them to do what the city wants them to do.
and so he mms, vaguely and distantly, like his thoughts are somewhere else entirely, and lottie speaking — wetly — isn't even enough to quite draw him from his reverie, not until lottie pulls away from him, the comforting warmth of her body against his replaced by relative coldness. )
Huh? ( oh. ) I dunno. I don't drink coffee with milk. Probably the regular ones. ( probably some irregular ones, too. drinking breast milk was a kink, right? that's probably on a menu somewhere, he thinks, but doesn't vocalise. )